


Piety Nor Wit

by imagineagreatadventure



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Agatha Christie AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Basically, Chapter Count Might Change, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Miss Marple AU, Modern Westeros, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Olenna is Miss Marple, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Jaime Lannister, Slow Burn, The Moving Finger AU, Unreliable Narrator, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24244957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagineagreatadventure/pseuds/imagineagreatadventure
Summary: The clock ticked and Mrs. Tyrell waited.She was not quite sure what she was waiting for entirely, other than an annoying guest, but suspected that once the little hand struck five that something evil would arrive.Sure enough, at five o’clock, Miss Cersei Lannister showed up at the door, her hair perfectly coiffed into the most fashionable curls that Olenna’s granddaughters would salivate over — especially the stupider ones. Margaery, perhaps, would find fault in Cersei’s overall dress but Olenna Tyrell was past the age of caring. She was more concerned with the haunted look in Cersei’s eyes. She had never seen the young woman so afraid. This new development pleased a small, cruel part of Olenna, but another part (her stupider part) was oddly concerned. What in the seven hells could make Cersei Lannister afraid?~An Agatha Christie AU ("The Moving Finger" - A Miss Marple story)
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 106
Kudos: 99





	1. Prologue

_The Moving Finger writes;_ _and, having writ,_ _Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit_ _Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,_ _Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it._

_\- Omar Khayyam_

* * *

The clock ticked and Mrs. Tyrell waited.

She was not quite sure what she was waiting for entirely, other than an annoying guest, but suspected that once the little hand struck five that something evil would arrive.

Sure enough, at five o’clock, Miss Cersei Lannister showed up at the door, her hair perfectly coiffed into the most fashionable curls that Olenna’s granddaughters would salivate over — especially the stupider ones. Margaery, perhaps, would find fault in Cersei’s overall dress but Olenna Tyrell was past the age of caring. She was more concerned with the haunted look in Cersei’s eyes. She had never seen the young woman so afraid. This new development pleased a small, cruel part of Olenna, but another part ( _her stupider part)_ was oddly concerned. What in the seven hells could make Cersei Lannister afraid?

“I cannot believe I am coming to _you_ ,” Cersei declared without preamble. Perhaps she believed the telegram she had sent the day before would be enough of an introduction to the matter? “But enough is enough. These terrible letters —”

“The ones you have written about?”

“I didn’t know where else to turn,” Cersei said curtly. The tone didn’t surprise Olenna who had known Cersei Lannister since she was a young girl. She had always been one who bordered the line between rudeness and _rich_. “The police are idiots and while I have never trusted you — well, you know how to solve… _particular_ problems.”

“Such as murder.”

Cersei only pursed her lips. “Quite.”

Olenna desperately wanted to laugh but held it together. Young people like Cersei were so easy to read. “So come, tell me the story from the beginning.”

“From the beginning?” Cersei was aghast — and _angered_ , Olenna noted. “But that would take quite too long!”

“It is imperative I understand everything.”

“You should come with me — Jaime could explain much better —”

“But I suspect your brother hasn’t yet realized that you have written to me?”

Cersei’s red lips looked almost like a slash, she drew them together so tightly. “How did you - well, never mind. No, he doesn’t. Not yet. I was hoping your appearance would. . . _elucidate him_. And come, we do not have time for such follies as storytelling — you must come with me now. Jaime is meeting me by the station and he can explain it all to you. He’s been there for all of it… much more than myself.”

Although she would have enjoyed dangling Cersei on a string for another twenty minutes, Olenna acquiesced, realizing that she would need her mind power for a much more important venture. “Margaery is coming too. I did tell you that in my telegram back to you so I expect you have a train ticket for her as well?”

Cersei scowled. ( _Olenna expected this.)_ “Yes.”

“It’ll be just like your school days,” Olenna said cheerfully, amused at how Cersei’s frown lines grew twice as deep. “Now, come along, girls.”

* * *

The three women sat in silence in the back of the taxicab that Cersei hired — Margaery knew better than to engage the older women in chatter, preferring to pore over a new fashion magazine instead.

When Olenna saw Jaime Lannister as he helped them out of the cab, she resisted smiling coyishly at him as she might have done in her youth. Margaery had no such resistance but Jaime didn’t seem to notice — too preoccupied with the question of _‘why are they here?’_.

While Cersei explained to her brother in hurried, hushed tones, Olenna observed the male Lannister twin.

He was as handsome as she remembered, nearing thirty with a kind of athletic grace despite the cane that he leaned on (as well as his missing hand). He lost it in an aeroplane accident, Olenna remembered. Other than his loss of a hand, she could spy no other defaults in his appearance, which explained why every woman (and a decent amount of men) in the train station ogled him as they walked by — one young lady almost running into a marble pillar as she did so. He wore a clean, pressed set of pants and a crisp white shirt. Olenna doubted he had worn anything like a suit since his accident. This was as close to formal as Jaime Lannister dared to wear, she surmised with a glance. _His father must be dreadfully annoyed_ , she thought; remembering Tywin Lannister’s twitching when his son announced that he was going to be an aviator at a grand dinner the old sourpuss had been hosting years before. She had never seen Tywin Lannister’s face turn so deliciously red — it had been one of her favorite meals in recent memory.

Olenna interrupted the golden twins. “I am quite sure we will miss our train if you two continue to speak as though we are not here.” Jaime narrowed his eyes at her and she let herself smile impishly back. “Mr. Lannister,” she said. “Shall we go?”

They found themselves a compartment and with one subtle hint to Margaery, her granddaughter left to go to the bar. “I daresay some gin would liven this up,” Olenna said once Margaery left.

Cersei glared. There was no amusement in her — just self-pity, anger, and a strong belief she was always correct in her actions. One of the most dangerous combinations in a human being, Olenna believed. She had seen enough vile human beings in her long life to notice the most deadly characteristics and Cersei was drowning in them.

Jaime, however, was a creature she did not quite understand. He differed from the last she had seen him — at a ball before the start of the war. A silly, stupid event that was borne out of a need to raise money for the last war’s widows and children — so many stupid wars and so many stupid children borne of them. Jaime, in the past, had distinctly reminded her of her grandson Loras. Both silly, vain, prideful creatures. Handsome, talented but ridiculous boys who were closer to children than men. Now part of Jaime lacked — and it was not his right hand. She wasn’t even terribly sure if it was a _bad_ thing. It was rather a lack of something she could not name.

Not yet, anyhow. She was sure she’d solve that puzzle soon enough. With a cough, Olenna settled into her cushions and waited for one of the twins to speak.

Jaime spoke first. “How much has Cersei told you?”

“Not enough!” Olenna declared. “Only whispers of murder and letters and village gossip — the most dangerous gossip of all!”

Neither twin laughed. _Shame_ , she thought.

Jaime leaned back into his seat, his shoulders slumped. “I would have laughed at your comment months ago but now I know you’re right.”

“When you live as long as I do—” Olenna said, but Cersei interrupted.

“We know you’re old,” she snapped. “Use that aged wisdom of yours and help us.”

“Cersei—” Jaime said, almost sighing. “She’s going to. Why else would she come?”

“For more glory and fame — the old lady who solves murders!” Cersei said, sneering. “Then solve this one. For it definitely wasn’t suicide!”

“How do you know?”

“Because they found another body yesterday.”

Olenna reached into her purse for a cigarette. “Perhaps you should start from the beginning.”

“Very well,” Jaime said. _Much more compliant than his sister,_ Olenna thought with amusement.

“I don’t wish to be here for this,” Cersei said, standing up. “I can’t bear to hear about that dreadful letter again.”

“It is the letter that bothers you and not the murders?” Jaime asked. He sounded amused and when the smoke from Olenna’s cigarette cleared away, she noted he was smiling. “You are a strange one, dear sister.”

Cersei only slammed the door in reply — shaking the entire compartment. One of Margaery’s pieces of luggage missed Jaime’s foot by a single inch. He didn’t seem to notice, staring after his sister with a frown.

Jaime shook his head once he noticed Olenna was observing him. “Well, now she’s gone I suppose I can be more… forthright in my telling.”

“You would have omitted some things with her here then?”

Jaime nodded, his green eyes honest. Honesty was not a word Olenna associated with Lannisters and so this new development intrigued her. Jaime was not the boy he was three years ago. “Yes.”

“Then begin before she comes back.”

He laughed. “I doubt she will come back here until we arrive and that won’t be for hours yet. Will Margaery attend us?”

“Doubtful, she enjoys gossiping and flirting with strangers too much.” Additionally, Olenna hoped that her granddaughter would learn an angle from the passengers that the Lannisters would not be likely to share. News did travel fast even aboard trains and despite Jaime’s clear eyes, she was sure he would omit something by accident or purposefully. It was only human nature. “Now begin — for I will not ask again.”

“It started with my injury, I suppose…” he trailed off.

Ah. This sort of beginning made sense. Lannisters thought of themselves first — even amidst two murders. “Go on.”

“The doctor told me I should go to a nice, quiet village to convalesce, you see it had been _months—_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been working on this story for an embarrassingly long time off and on the last few years. 
> 
> I read the Miss Marple story "The Moving Finger" by Agatha Christie a few years back and ever since I read it, I couldn't get it out of my mind how perfect of a story it would be for Jaime and Brienne. 
> 
> 1) Ya'll should read it (or at least the Wikipedia page) and try to tell me it's not them  
> 2) If you do read it know that it is not quite the same as mine other than the broad strokes and the general love story within it. 
> 
> Also the quote at the beginning of the story is where the title of "The Moving Finger" came from (a poem by Omar Khayyam) and I found it amusing to take my title from it as well. Plus it works imo ;) 
> 
> In other warning-ish kind of things, there will be mentions of possible suicide/attempted suicide, violence in general (it is a murder mystery), and so on - I assume most of the readers who are opening up this story will be able to handle this if they read asoiaf and/or watched the show but can never be too careful. I don't think it's that graphic or upsetting but I wanted to give people an out. 
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoyed the prologue. It's my first time writing a mystery and it was fun and frustrating all at once. I expect the next chapter to be out next week and the rest will be from a 2-3 week span - and unlike my other stories, this story is nearly finished (I'd say 97-98%) already so I should be able to keep to this schedule.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister and his dear twin sister receive an unusual letter.

_**Chapter One: The Beginning** _

It had been months since Jaime Lannister had fallen out of the sky and onto a field in the middle of the Riverlands. His convalescence had helped him heal from his injuries — even Cersei noticed now, begrudgingly, how well he looked compared to the bloodied mess that they had extracted from the aeroplane. He did not enjoy thinking of those days — did not enjoy remembering how he thought of looking through the poisons in the chemist’s cabinet and swallowing the worst of them. Oh, if he could have walked then he was sure he would have done _it_ but there had been no way he could have moved out of the bed without assistance. His spine was too bruised in the early months. Nor could he convince Cersei to do it for him. 

“So I can hang for your murder?” she demanded, and that ended _that_ quite quickly.

Tyrion was not even asked — Jaime knew his younger brother would only see an insult in the asking. He was a dwarf and prickly about it — although he often masked it in humor and wit. Tyrion seemed to think Jaime’s loss of hand and incapability of walking as the universe twisting something beautiful into something right and just. Now only Cersei needed to be twisted, Jaime was sure Tyrion had thought and then would feel abashed for thinking so poorly of his younger brother. Tyrion would never really think that. 

Jaime loved Tyrion and Tyrion loved him just as well. Jaime would kill — although perhaps that wasn’t the thing to say when two murders have occurred. Well, he would anyhow. He would kill anyone who harmed a hair on his brother’s head or his sister’s. That is why this was a mess. A terrible, awful mess.

But this leads nowhere. He needed to start from the beginning — the true beginning.

The truth was that the doctor who ran the hospital on the Quiet Isle insisted that Jaime rest up in a nice, safe, quiet village that only dealt in trivial gossip. Nothing exciting, nothing fast-paced. No city life for Mr. Lannister. Only a sister and perhaps a brother assisting when they could.

Somehow Cersei was convinced in joining his recuperation efforts. Jaime supposed she saw it as an adventure — pretending to play at peasantry, lording it over the village idiots as she delighted in calling all villagers behind their backs. Jaime was not sure what he saw it as other than an escape from the hospital. He could walk now, barely, while using a cane with his only hand — his left. Tyrion refused to join them — jesting it was too small of a place for such a big man. 

Jaime knew that was nonsense but didn’t press his brother on it. Tyrion was used to the city and preferred it there — it was easier being a dwarf in King’s Landing than in a small village just outside the (supposedly) cursed Harrenhal. 

And perhaps that’s what should have warned them away even before the letters. 

The cursed location.

* * *

Cersei was the one to rent the house. An old lady who never married lent it to them: a Miss Mordane who apparently thought very well of Cersei’s manners and not so much of Jaime’s when he came to look around the house. It was Cersei’s hair and makeup and dress that really did the trick since Jaime was quite sure it had nothing to do with anything Cersei had done or said. Miss Mordane was the old sort who put stock into names and looks -- Lannister still meant something to folks such as her. 

Or so Jaime assumed by the adoration shown on the old woman’s face. He was quite sure Cersei deserved none of the accolades that Miss Mordane pressed onto Cersei while she handed his sister the key. “Now, my housemaid will still come by and take care of you and your things. She has been taking care of this house for many years and she may not like the changes you impart but I suppose it will do the house a world of good.” 

Cersei only nodded, her mouth tight so Jaime spoke for her. “I’m not sure how much we will change—”

“We will change quite a bit,” Cersei corrected. She wrapped her hand around the little silver keys. One for her and one for Jaime. “Thank you, Miss Mordane. You said you will not be far?”

“Only two miles down the road. A small little boarding house is best for me now in my old age. This house is too big for just me.”

 _And the stairs were too much for her_ , Jaime gathered, wincing. He was not sure how he would manage it either. Walking was still difficult even with a cane (especially one he used with a non-dominant hand). Yet the doctor insisted he walk at least a mile a day. Fortunately, the village square was a half-mile walk and so by the time he needed to turn around he would be halfway done with his daily routine. 

His doctor also suggested that he should rest and listen to the unintelligible gossip as it would do his mind good to listen to nonsense and bother but Jaime was sure that was ridiculous. He’d rather fall out of the aeroplane again than listen to village gossip. 

His bones cracked in dismay as he trudged up the stoop that led to his new home. Everything still hurt and his hand was gone — could he really afford to lose another one even in an imagined scenario?

If he lost the only hand he had left, Jaime was sure he’d drink the arsenic this time.

The house was old-fashioned in every aspect. From the furniture that Jaime was sure was older than his dead grandparents to the high ceilings that were quite out of style from the modern homes that his brother favored, the irrepressible character of the house almost impressed Jaime. He liked it more than any other home he had lived in, not that this said much. But he enjoyed feeling as if he was living a century ago. “Are you trying to go back to a time before flying, Cersei?”

She did not like his comment. “Are you trying to aggravate me?”

He only laughed. 

* * *

The first week living in their little home was quiet. The housekeeper, a Miss Roelle, was a cantankerous woman who seemed older than she actually was. Jaime gathered enough information from her to suspect she was around forty but she acted much older than Miss Mordane. Old maids were their own sort of species, Jaime had gathered, and old maids in villages differed vastly from the fashionable old maids in the city.

Sometimes he believed that Cersei wished to be one of the fashionable old maids but when he ventured the idea, she only sniffed in reply. “Dear brother, I wish to be a fashionable widow — old maids are not beautiful.”

“And widows are beautiful?”

“Precisely.”

Jaime enjoyed laughing with his sister. He often suspected he was the only one who understood her dark humor. Although, at times like these, he was unsure if she was in a strange humor or if she was speaking the truth. He disregarded the thought though — he leaned towards charity when he thought of his siblings. “And who will you marry? An old man near death?”

She curled her lip. “Old men are not to my taste. The only man worth marrying is Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Jaime rolled his eyes — although he agreed with his sister. If she had to marry anyone, it would be better for her to marry Rhaegar Targaryen — the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms — than anyone else. Jaime suspected Rhaegar was the only man in the world who could sway her actions. And as much as Cersei played at being the modern female, she desperately needed someone to depend on for their father encouraged her dependency. For now, she was dependent on Jaime and their father even if she was unwilling to admit it — she thought too highly of herself to admit something like that. “Come now, does he even know you exist?”

“We’ve met, you know this,” she said impatiently. “He and I have spoken several times and he has always remembered me with affection. Did you know he has a house here? He spends his autumns and springs here — in the manse near the ruins of Harrenhal — called Summerhall.”

He knew exactly what house she spoke of, he had seen it on the drive in from the train station. “You can’t call it a manse, it’s more a small, old castle than a manse.” But this news surprised Jaime. “Did you pick _this house_ because of Rhaegar Targaryen?”

“Oh, Jaime, why else?”

“Good to know I was your first priority, dear sister,” he said, thinking of the stairs he was forced to climb up and down every morning and evening. “You better marry the man.”

“I will,” she said, her eyes flashing in promise. 

He would have continued the conversation if the mail did not catch his eye. The postman had come by and a small pile of mail had come through the slot. He hobbled over, leaning on his cane, grunting as he bent down to grab with his right hand — forgetting he had no such hand any longer. Miserable, he looked to Cersei who rolled her eyes and muttered something about helpless cripples before picking up the pile. 

“Mostly bills,” she said, throwing more than a third of the letters onto the table to peruse later. “But there’s a letter from Margaery Tyrell — what could that wretch want? — and some letter that’s postmarked from yesterday. I don’t recognize the handwriting.” She handed that one to Jaime while opening the letter from Margaery Tyrell with a disgusted look.

“She’s inviting me to a garden party — as if I would take the train all the way to Highgarden to see her and her idiotic friends, after all, we were years apart in school— what is the matter, Jaime? You look whiter than a ghost.”

The letter he had opened was the strangest thing he had ever read. He thought of throwing it in the fire but helplessly handed the letter to his sister, almost amused at how red her face turned once she read the letter. “Who would DARE—”

“Someone did.”

“We don’t even know anyone in town — we have no friends!”

“Clearly,” he said, his tone dripping in the sort of wit Cersei hated. It was a sort of humor he and Tyrion shared that Cersei and their father lacked. Sometimes he wondered if they inherited it from their dead mother. But he didn’t remember Joanna Lannister well enough to know for certain.

“This is not funny!”

“It’s also not true,” he pointed out, feeling quite reasonable. 

“They say that we are lovers — they’re accusing us of —” her face became ugly, something he never thought was possible.

“It seems more like they think we aren’t really siblings. It’s just a piece of anonymous hate mail, Cersei. Have you never heard of this nonsense before? I remember reading of a case when I was in that hospital on the Quiet Isle—”

“But what have we done? Isn’t this usually targeted towards people they know?”

Jaime was becoming annoyed. “It doesn’t matter — it’s not true. Give it back to me.”

Cersei didn’t — she did what she wanted as she always did. She threw the letter in the fire. “Cersei, we could have given that to the police,” Jaime said, although he wasn’t that bothered. He was glad it was gone. It couldn’t hurt them now, the flames licking the paper with the atrociously typed out font. 

“The police? Are you mad? This is not something anyone should hear about! Can you imagine!”

Jaime had no response to that, instead... remembering what it looked like. “It was written on a typewriter, clearly, but on what kind? I don’t think I’ve seen such a strange typeset of letters—”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done,” Cersei said with such finality that Jaime almost believed her.

But it wasn’t done. Not in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Expect the next chapter in 2-3 weeks!


	3. Brienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime annoys a neighbor.

_**Chapter Two: Brienne  
** _

For a while, however, it seemed all was well in the little town they now called home. Jaime admired how resolute the village was — it was as if nothing existed outside of their intimate sphere of intrigues and nonsense, despite the train station that lived on the outskirts, leading them away to exotic locales such as the historic, crumbling Wall or the cosmopolitan King’s Landing. (And of course, the unending war in Essos.)

“The girls are too modern outside of here,” more than one old gentleman had said to Jaime at the pub. Some of these men weren’t much older than himself but had opinions that seemed as ancient as the rotting Harrenhal castle. 

Ned Stark was one of those fellows, a Northerner who fell in love with a Riverland girl years before. They had several brats that roamed the village causing all sorts of troubles and hijinks. Ned’s sister-in-law Lysa Tully (who eyed Jaime with a strange mix of distaste and attraction) watched her nieces and nephews with feigned practiced care. “Those modern sorts of girls look down their noses at us and think little of the village life, the morals that raised them or at least the morals that _should have_ raised them. They are too practical — too practical for morals seems like most of the time,” Ned Stark said to Jaime while Jaime pretended to listen.

Cersei was one of these _modern_ ladies, Jaime was sure, but the men were tactful enough not to say it to Jaime’s face. He was sure he had heard mutterings while he struggled with the bathroom door, the village men speaking of how strange that a woman that beautiful was unmarried.

It wasn’t strange really, Jaime thought. Cersei had her pick of men wherever she went and she abused that power most happily. She only wanted the powerful and the strong and the beautiful though — nothing else would please her. Robert Baratheon was the first man in town to fall under her enchantment, although truly, Jaime believed, the former athlete didn't think much of Cersei. Which perhaps didn’t matter really as she didn’t think much of him. “A brute really. It’s no surprise his fiance ran off ten years ago,” she told Jaime.

“A fiance?” 

"Yes, Ned Stark’s younger sister, Lyanna. You hadn’t heard about this?” Cersei seemed genuinely surprised. “It was quite the scandal. No one knew where she had gone. It seems some still aren’t quite sure although Ned, her brother, will often receive letters from Dorne so everyone supposes she went there although he never says a thing about it -- not even to his wife. Even though Robert’s his best friend!”

“You know quite a lot about this,” Jaime noted, amused. “Why is that?”

Cersei threw a disgusted look in his direction. “If I must live amongst these people I must know what I’m dealing with.”

Jaime knew his sister well enough to know it was more than that. “You’re still thinking of our letter aren’t you? You think it was one of them.”

She grew angrier. “Of course I am! How could you not be! One of these village people had to be the one who sent that _threat_ to us!”

Jaime shrugged although the letter bothered him nearly as much as it bothered her. And was it truly a threat? “They’re sheep, we’re lions, isn’t that what father would say?”

That calmed her temper. “It is true,” she said. “I just dislike it.”

“You don’t usually mind it when others dislike you. And you don’t seem to like the villagers here much in any case.”

“This is different. This was a cowardly attack on our spirits and I’d like to destroy whoever wrote it.”

“I’m sure you will,” Jaime said, ending the conversation.

* * *

Jaime was still unsure why exactly his doctors insisted he live in a village. He missed his comfortable apartment in the city where he could see a view of the rollicking waves but he sold it once he realized he wouldn't be coming back any time soon. Tyrion mocked him for selling it but Jaime couldn't abide the thought of it sitting empty, he'd rather lovers use it the way he never had a chance to.

With that lonesome thought, he wondered if it was better he was far away from civilization. There was exercise here from walking up and down the dusty roads to reach what the sheep who lived here considered a village square. He supposed it was vaguely better than lying in a hospital bed or on the couch in his sitting room but mostly it was duller than dirt. Rest and relaxation were not helpful to him — all he could think about was his injuries when he sat around. In the city, he would at least be amused by endless distractions. 

Or become distracted by a lonely sea. 

For a short while, he thought he’d have fun people watching, always a diverting activity — he and Tyrion took part in it when they were children. Tyrion would point out a fellow and they would make up amazing (and ridiculous) tales about the man. Now he did it with the men and women he saw on his long walk to town. There was the beautiful blonde with hair so light it looked like silver, she must have been a pain to any man who dared to date her with a fiery temper to match (or perhaps he was thinking more of his sister?). There was a middle-aged man with a slick mustache, he probably stole secrets and sold them to the enemy abroad, hiding out here undercover. 

And then there was Brienne Tarth who was exactly as dull as she looked. She was a tall, gangly thing of about twenty-one that wasn’t blessed with the fortunate looks that seemed to plague most of her neighbors. The girl lived in the village with her father — they were one of the more well-off villagers according to the local gossip-mongers. Jaime had heard Mr. Tarth speaking of a house he had on the island of Tarth that they summered on so he assumed the local gossip mill was correct about their wealth (although they were only a distant off-shoot of the noble Tarth family according to that same gossip mill). Yet, still, Selwyn Tarth let his daughter dress like a pauper. It was aggravating to witness.

Jaime also knew that Tarth gallivanted with any woman of loose morals that allowed herself to be wooed by him, while his poor daughter (for Jaime had never seen such a piteous creature) sat on the sidelines waiting for her own wooing, Jaime supposed. She was fairly ugly and broad and looked more like a man than a young lady of means so it was doubtful she would ever be wooed at all. _Her patience would never be rewarded_ , he thought, at least when he first knew her.

“Oh, it’s you,” Brienne said to Jaime as he hobbled down the road, looking more disgruntled than pleased at his appearance. 

This made him like her much more than if she had responded happily. He was sick of the women in the village who cooed over him as if he was a lost child — his loss of a hand made him _interesting_ and his good looks made him _desirable._

It was like being surrounded by a mob anytime he ventured down the street. 

Lysa Tully, in particular, had recently dedicated all of her attention towards him causing Jaime to flinch any time he saw red hair.

“It’s me,” he replied cheerfully leaning on his walking stick to examine her. Brienne was sitting on the curb, her blue bicycle beside her bloodied knee. She wore high-waisted shorts that hit the top of her knee, something that would not have been out of place in the city but frequently caused eyebrow raises and whispers here in the village. “Do you need some help?”

“How would you help me?” she grumbled. “You’re barely walking.”

Encouraged by her discouragement, Jaime continued to grin. “At least I’m not bleeding on the side of the road.” Her glare was biting and he rushed to speak before she threw a clod of dirt at him. He was quite sure she would — she was the most unladylike lady he had ever met. “Come now, wench, my house is not two blocks down the road, we can get that cleaned up for you.”

Her glare ebbed a fraction — most wouldn’t have noticed it, Jaime was sure, but he sensed the relief in her bright blue eyes. And they were very bright and very blue. “All right,” she agreed, pulling herself up with a wince, not even bothering to correct the wench comment as she normally would. “Is your sister there?”

Brienne was frightened of Cersei? He would have laughed if it hadn’t demonstrated to Jaime that Brienne had more sense than anyone else in the wretched village. “No,” he replied with amusement. “Just our housekeeper.”

Her scowl, which had been dwindling, changed into something small and undefinable. “Oh. _Her_.”

“You know her?” Jaime asked as they walked together back up the road. He was sure they looked quite a pair -- the ugly, awkward giantess limping with a bloody knee and the handsome one-handed fool leaning on a cane. 

“She was my family’s housekeeper for years — she helped Miss Mordane on the weekend and worked for us during the week,” Brienne said in a way that made Jaime grow dreadfully curious. However, he was wise enough to realize she wouldn’t speak any more about it so he entertained Brienne with stories about his own housekeeper growing up and although he was sure the younger girl would deny it, he was sure he spied a smile at least once. 

It was a strange smile as if she was unused to the sensation. For the first time, Jaime imagined Brienne as a young girl growing up in this little village — it had to be quite difficult. Even beauties like his own sister struggled in the midst of adolescence so he couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be an ugly girl during that peculiar time. Even now, as she was stuck between childhood and womanhood, he realized she was still struggling. Not only with her knee, which had stopped bleeding by the time they got to the house, but with her place in life. 

She had nothing to do here — no men to marry, no schools to attend, no house to run, no occupation to occupy her. “Are you bored?” Jaime asked her, determined on knowing the answer. They were sitting on his stoop, Brienne too shy or feminine or something ridiculous to go in without a chaperone. Or perhaps she was avoiding Miss Roelle, he realized now watching her careful expression. He had given her a bandage and some iodine to clean her bloodied knee with and was gazing at her intently, waiting for a response.

She was so startled by the question that she spilled the iodine all over her calf muscle. Jaime had to hide his laughter. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean that there isn’t much for you to do here.”

“... at your house?”

“In this village,” Jaime corrected, momentarily amused by her obtuse answer.

Her blue eyes were innocent. And melancholy. “I have my father to look after.”

“Is that all? Don’t you miss school — I’m assuming your father sent you to a boarding school?”

“He did,” Brienne said, hesitating, frowning deeply as if she didn’t understand his interest. And perhaps she didn’t. Who would have asked her? The other villagers treated her like she was still a child of twelve instead of a woman of twenty. “But I graduated over two years ago.”

“Well, did you like school?” Her face was as blank as a stone and Jaime's irritation grew. _It was like pulling teeth with her!_ If he wasn’t so bored himself he wouldn’t have bothered.

“I liked fencing,” she said, her face finally breaking into a frown. “And tennis. I was good at rowing. I liked literature and history. Math wasn’t so bad either.”

The sports and literature did not surprise him. The math did. “Math?” He made a face. “Math is awful.”

Her face grew disdainful. She almost looked like Cersei for a brief and wild moment. “Math is lovely,” she replied. “It’s facts — one plus one equals two. You can’t change that no matter how much you want it to change.” At this, her voice died as if she was suddenly remembering something she wanted to change desperately.

“Brienne,” Jaime said and then stopped. He wasn’t sure what to say to the girl. _She was just a child really_ , he thought. _An ugly, unfortunate child._

Quiet settled between them. “Thank you, Mr. Lannister,” she said after she had finished with the bandage and the iodine. “I suppose I’ll see you in town.”

“I was headed there when I ran into you. Perhaps we could walk back together?”

“No,” she said, hitching her leg over her bicycle. “I have somewhere else to be.” And she rode off quickly, reminding Jaime of a hero riding off into the sunset on a horse. Except it was only midday and it was not a horse but a bicycle. 

And not a hero, but only a girl. 

He shrugged off the image and made his way back inside, deciding that he could skip a walk into town today. After all, Brienne was more intriguing than any of the other villagers, he needn't spy on their domestic troubles. 

He was forced to reconsider this belief the very next day when he met Rhaegar Targaryen in the village’s only public house. Despite the fact they shared many things in common, it was only the first time he had met the other man. 

Cersei was clinging to the man’s arm with such determination that all the surrounding women were glaring at her — if they did not hate her before they hated her _now._ “Jaime!” she greeted, not letting go of Rhaegar’s arm, clutching it the way Lysa Tully clutched the arm of any man. The similarity made Jaime's upper lip quirk. “Isn’t it wonderful? Mr. Targaryen and I have just been re-acquainted. It’s been so long since we last met, you know.”

“Never had the pleasure,” Jaime said, leaning over to offer his left hand to the other man. He knew of Rhaegar, of course. Even before Cersei had met him he had heard of the man. They had gone to the same boarding school in King’s Landing although Rhaegar had graduated a year before Jaime arrived. The other boys spoke of Rhaegar in hushed tones as if he were a prince or a king or a god. Jaime always found that amusing -- his amusement grew once Cersei decided to capture the man after a chance meeting at a garden party. 

But looking at him now, Jaime understood the fascination. Silvery hair, not grey but hair so light it looked nearly white, with eyes so blue they looked violet and a dignified expression on an aristocratic face — Jaime had always been called a beautiful man but looking at Rhaegar he felt nearly as ugly as Brienne. “You can call me Rhaegar,” the other man said with warmth. He didn’t seem to notice Cersei’s clutch on his arm, almost ignoring her in favor of speaking with Jaime.

He was the sort of man who made you feel as though all his valuable attention was yours to have. No wonder Cersei was nearly in love with him. “It is good to meet you,” Jaime said. “I’ve only heard good things.”

Rhaegar opened his mouth to speak but before he could, another man with a shocking red beard joined their party. “Mr. Targaryen, ser,” he said, bowing his head. Jaime wondered who he was as he continued to speak hurriedly. “There’s been another… letter.”

The word letter pricked Jaime’s ears and he looked back at Rhaegar. 

Rhaegar’s violet eyes, which had been almost sleepy-looking, grew bright. “Is that right?” he asked the other man. “Excuse me, I must attend to a business matter,” he said to Jaime and Cersei with a small, melancholy smile. “However, I hope you will have dinner with me tomorrow — I am having a little party. The Tarths will be there as will Mr. Connington,” he indicated the red-bearded man, “and his nephew. There may be one or two others as well — I hope you will come? It would be a shame if you couldn’t make it.”

“We will!” Cersei blurted — as if Jaime was about to decline. She let go of Rhaegar’s arm — suddenly realizing how hard she had been clutching it. “Oh.”

Rhaegar’s smile was small. “I am glad to hear it. Jon,” he turned to the other man, Mr. Connington, “make sure the Lannisters are on the list.”

“Of course,” Mr. Connington agreed. Once Rhaegar left the pub, Mr. Connington turned to Jaime. “I am Jon Connington,” he said to them with a nod, “Mr. Targaryen’s steward. May I have your address so I can send a proper invitation?” Jaime found this formality laughable (and who had a steward now?) but Cersei obviously did not, if the flash of her eyes indicated anything.

“Oh, yes, let me write it down for you," she answered.

“Thank you,” Mr. Connington said, taking the piece of paper that she wrote on. “It will be nice to have a quiet dinner, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, yes,” Cersei said, her smile ebbing. She did not like this man very much, Jaime realized, as her green eyes sharpened. He wondered if they had met before. “It will.”

Mr. Connington almost looked like he would bow, like a butler in a film, but only shook Jaime’s hand and kissed the back of Cersei’s before leaving.

“Well!” Cersei said, watching the man leave with interest. Her voice grew hushed as if she didn’t want the others in the pub to hear. Not that there were many. There was a gaggle of young girls wearing colorful hats by the window, two blonde men conversing at a table near theirs, a dark-haired man reading a newspaper in the corner, and a young dark-haired woman sitting on a stool by the bar. And the bartender, Tobho Mott, who was cleaning out a glass with a dirty kerchief. “I believe tomorrow night will be very interesting.”

“Do you?” Jaime said. “Perhaps for you — I will be dreadfully bored.”

“How could you be bored at his party? Rhaegar is the most fascinating man I have ever met.”

“He is the most beautiful man you have ever met — not the most fascinating. There’s a difference.”

Cersei laughed. “Oh no, there isn’t. Not in this case for Rhaegar is both. You’ll see.”

He doubted this but knew better than to argue with his sister — she always thought she was in the right. Tyrion hated this about her but Jaime admired it. And believed her usually. “I suppose I will, dear sister.”

Her smile was dangerous. “You will, I can promise you that, Jaime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Encouraged by her discouragement" is probably my favorite phrase of this chapter - it's so Jaime ;)
> 
> The next chapter should also be posted in three weeks. With everything going on in the world (and my own personal/family life) it's been hard to focus on the final chapters and their revisions. Fingers crossed I get time/energy these next three weeks!


	4. The Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lannister siblings attend a dinner party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this chapter's delay but literally almost everything that can go wrong has been going wrong lately! But everything is mostly put back together like Humpty Dumpty so I think we can go back to the original 2-3 week estimates of chapter updates!
> 
> Without further ado -------

_**Chapter Three: The Wife** _

  
A beautiful car pulled up to the curb outside their house. It shone like a diamond in the dying sun. “Rhaegar sent for us,” Cersei said, looking delighted in a way that Jaime hadn’t ever witnessed on his sister’s face. “A chauffeur is driving us!”

She sounded almost as if she had never seen a chauffeur in her life which was utter nonsense since their father employed _three._ “He truly wants me there,” she continued, oblivious to or ignoring the smirk on Jaime’s face. “I will have him, Jaime.”

“ _If it’s the last thing you’ll do_?” Jaime quipped, feeling as though his sister was one of the dastardly villains on the radio shows that she made him listen to while he laid in a hospital bed for months on end.

“You’re being nonsensical,” she snapped. “Come along, and hide your right arm as best you can. We can’t have you being dreary.”

“Ah yes, my lack of a right hand will be sure to dispel the curse you’ve placed on this Rhaegar. Not the cane.”

“Utter nonsense,” she said and then went out to the car with her head held high. So high that Jaime, for an absurd moment, wondered if it would float away. 

Watching his sister glide down their steps and into the fanciful car, Jaime was suddenly glad Brienne Tarth would be there — at least she would be amusing. 

And she amused him immensely as soon as he saw her — some fool draped her in flowing pink, the color and fashion very ill-suited for her coloring and build. It made Brienne look twice as homely, broad, and tall as she already was and by the look on her face, she knew it. He could not tell if she was scowling or pouting — in either case, she looked very much like she would rather be swallowed up by a hole in the earth than be sitting in Rhaegar Targaryen’s sitting room. 

But still, she sat.

A young girl with hair as silver as Rhaegar, a girl who Jaime had seen on several occasions while walking along in the village, was seated next to her. 

“I’m Daenerys Targaryen, Rhaegar’s younger sister,” the unknown girl explained, her mouth turned in a prim smile. Jaime would have written her off as another society brat, but something in her violet eyes revealed a fire underneath. Unlike Brienne, she wore a dress that fit and suited her: a trim, dark red dress. It was the sort of dress that looked cheaper than it was — she was “dressing down”, Jaime surmised. Only the silver jewelry she wore gave her away as a rich heiress, if not for that Jaime wouldn’t have been able to tell. “I hope you will find our home a comfort,” Daenerys said — almost as if she meant it.

Cersei did not raise an eyebrow although Jaime could tell she was unhappy. Unhappy that Rhaegar did not bring her into his confidence enough to reveal that he had a younger sister or unhappy that the sister was here, Jaime could not know. Once, a long time ago, he would have been able to read his sister’s thoughts as if they were his own but ever since the aeroplane crash she held her eyes away from him. Now, he could not read her nearly as well. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Cersei chimed to the girl, the insincerity illuminating her smile. The falseness reminded Jaime of a marquee at a theater — the bright smile was as artificial as the bright lights.

Daenerys' eyes flashed at the greeting but her smile stayed prim.

But Brienne stiffened when it was Cersei’s turn to greet her and for that Jaime could not blame her. Something cruel and curt was dancing on Cersei’s lips and so he broke forward before she could embarrass them all. “Is your knee any better, Brienne?”

Brienne, startled, glanced away from Cersei and towards Jaime. “It is.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he smiled and then explained to Daenerys, who was looking between them peculiarly. “Brienne and I have met several times — during our last meeting I chanced upon her after she injured herself riding her bicycle.”

At the word bicycle, Daenerys lit up. “Oh! A bicycle! I love riding. We should go together sometime. Doesn’t it make you feel like you’re flying when you ride down a long, steep hill? Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Flying?” Brienne said, looking surprised. “I had never thought of it like that. I think of it more as jousting. You know — how they did in the days of old before the Wall fell…”

“Oh, I know what you mean exactly! Almost as if your bicycle was your trusted steed. I just happen to imagine mine’s a dragon.” And then Daenerys did the strangest thing. _She giggled._

Jaime would have never thought she was the type to giggle. She looked too proper and serious to giggle. And yet there she was. “If you like flying, Miss Targaryen, you should go up in an aeroplane—” 

Cersei glared at him. “If you do, don’t go up with him. He’s a terrible pilot.”

“It’s how you lost your hand, isn’t it Mr. Lannister?” Daenerys said, her giggles gone, her proper demeanor restored. “It is a shame, I would have loved to see the world from above.”

“It is wonderful,” Jaime said, recollecting the rolling hills and the blue, effervescent sea. He missed flying, “but dangerous— ”

“Mr. Lannister, ser!” Mr. Connington opened the door. His red beard was trimmed and his hair was coiffed. “I am sorry to make you wait. The gentlemen are all sitting in the parlor for a pre-dinner cigar, I’m sure you don’t need to entertain these young ladies any longer.”

Cersei bristled and even the younger girls’ tempers seemed ready to flare at such a tactless sentence so Jaime hurriedly replied before one of them breathed fire. “I’ll be there in a moment, Mr. Connington, I am quite enjoying the company of the young ladies.”

Mr. Connington didn’t seem convinced. “As you say.”

“Mr. Connington clearly would like you to join the men,” Daenerys said as soon as he closed the door. 

“You should go, Jaime,” Cersei said in that overly sweet way that typically caused Tyrion to feign illness. “Please give all the _gentlemen_ our best wishes.” 

“As you say,” he said, mocking Mr. Connington’s delivery. Brienne was the only one who did not laugh, her bright blue eyes unamused at his quip. 

He left Brienne’s eyes behind and joined the men in the parlor room. Mr. Selwyn Tarth was there, the boisterous father of Brienne who matched his daughter in looks. He was only about an inch taller than Brienne and his hair was just as fair and his eyes just as blue. His face was not unattractive on a man, but, Jaime reflected, if a woman had to bear his face she would look quite like Brienne did — very plain and unaffecting. Mr. Connington gave Jaime a pleased nod as soon he ventured in. Connington stood next to another redhead — a much younger man, closer in age to Brienne and Daenerys. _This must be the nephew,_ Jaime thought. 

Rhaegar was not yet there but two other men that Jaime did not know approached him — one bearded and one mustachioed. “You must be Jaime Lannister,” said the bearded man. “I am Dr. Qyburn. I would love to speak with you about the hospital you stayed at — I know it is one of excellent care.”

“And I,” the mustachioed man cut in smoothly. Something about his voice reminded Jaime of a nightclub, “am Mr. Petyr Baelish.” Ah — _that was why._

“You run the Mockingbird in King’s Landing,” Jaime said to Mr. Baelish, ignoring Dr. Qyburn’s query on his hospital. He did not want to speak of that at Rhaegar Targaryen’s dinner party for Cersei would murder him if he did. “My sister has dragged me there on occasion. Great music.”

“Only the best,” Mr. Baelish agreed, smoothing his mustache. “But — dragged? You did not want to go?”

“I’m not highly interested in nightclubs,” Jaime said drily. “Even less now with my injury.”

“Oh, yes, an amputation— ” Dr. Qyburn interrupted, his eyes gleaming. “How that must have rankled you. Did they prescribe you anything for your anxiety? Depression? Anger?”

“What sort of doctor are you?” Jaime asked, disconcerted.

“A psychologist,” Dr. Qyburn said.

“Psychiatrist more like,” Mr. Baelish interrupted with a smile. “Do forgive me, but do you not prescribe medication to your patients?”

Dr. Qyburn had a mild expression on his face. “Yes, I suppose I was truly more of a psychiatrist but I felt that the layman does not understand the difference—”

Mr. Baelish had opened his mouth to interrupt yet again, but the door had opened and their host had shown himself. “Forgive me,” Rhaegar Targaryen said, paler than normal ( _and he was already quite pale_ ). “There is a bit of a problem. It, well, it seems that my guest of honor, my, well, surprise guest, has been found dead.”

Jaime felt his mouth open but no words came out. The others also stared at their host with shocked expressions although Mr. Baelish looked more puzzled than surprised.

Mr. Tarth was the only one who dared to broach the question. “Who was your guest?”

Rhaegar Targaryen threw him a melancholy smile. “My wife, Elia Martell.”

* * *

“A WIFE!” Cersei screeched once they were home. “That man has been married to some Dornish bitch - some Dornish WHORE - the whole time?”

“For thirteen years,” Jaime said, too weary to correct his sister on her word choices. It was a secret marriage. Rhaegar and Elia had married when they were both underaged, hiding their wedding from their rich and powerful parents who did not approve. The two of them then continued the charade even after they were of age, even after Elia’s parents passed on, unsure of what they wanted from one another as they grew older, too pleased with the status quo of secrecy. “It was a distant, estranged marriage necessitated by secrecy but Rhaegar was hoping that here, in his home, he could start anew with his wife at last.” Rhaegar’s poor excuses were coming out of his mouth and Jaime almost hated the other man for it. But he hated himself more for repeating it.

“I had hoped… for so long,” Rhaegar had said, his voice dying once he finished his tale of woe. He had shaken his head. “I wanted to start our lives together, _finally._ ”

So he _said_ , Jaime thought uncharitably, but the facts were clear. 

Rhaegar Targaryen could not have murdered his wife. He had alibis on top of alibis and until yesterday Elia Martell had been in Dorne. She only arrived in the Riverlands this morning and had been staying in a hotel in the Saltpans. Rhaegar was home all day sorting out his house for his guests, eagerly preparing his wife’s rooms according to four different witnesses. The only certain thing was that Elia Martell received a letter a little before six o’clock, went up to her room to read it and then, knowingly or not, drank poison. The police would tell them nothing else. 

And Jaime wanted to know nothing else. He wanted to think well of Rhaegar Targaryen, not poorly, for his sister’s sake.

“I’m sure this will be all over all the papers tomorrow morning,” Cersei said scornfully and impatiently. 

“I’m sure you’re right,” Jaime said, already tired from the long evening. “I hope no reporters ask us about it.”

“I quite hope they do!” Cersei said, her voice raised in defiance.

Jaime stared at her. “Why on earth would you want that?”

“If we stand loyally by Rhaegar, he will remember it.”

“Remember _you_ , you mean,” Jaime said, unamused. “And what if he did murder his wife?” _What would stop him from murdering his second wife,_ Jaime wanted to ask but could not bear the laugh that would follow his question. 

“The police think it’s a suicide,” Cersei said with such finality that Jaime knew she was correct. 

“How do you know they think that?”

“I charmed one into telling me when they arrived at the house. These country officers are so easy to charm, Jaime.”

He ignored her answer. “Why suicide?”

“The letter she received, it's like the letter that was sent to us although hers must have been true for she swallowed poison soon after! Why else would she commit suicide after reading it?”

“Well, what did it say?” Jaime asked, Cersei's fervor irritating him. 

At this question, Cersei’s expression, which had been boastful (and beautiful), turned sulky. “He wouldn’t tell me _that_ , but it _must_ be in the papers tomorrow.”

Jaime shook his head. “I can’t believe that we weren’t the only people who received one of those letters.”

She smiled. “Oh, no, apparently the whole town has been receiving them! It’s quite the scandal. I didn’t know the extent of it myself until tonight but I heard that Falyse Stokeworth pales at the sight of the mailman now. Sure to be a woman, I think. These letter writers always are -- but oh, I wonder what it said.”

“Probably nonsense,” Jaime replied, growing annoyed. “We know nothing yet, sweet sister. Leave it be. This has nothing to do with us.”

“You’re right, I’m sure,” Cersei said, rolling her eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll do as you say. I want to know.”

“Then let the newspapers tell you in the morning,” he said, tired. His back throbbed and his missing hand itched. If only he could scratch it. “Let us leave it be.”

“I wonder who knew her secret,” was the last thing Jaime heard Cersei say as he climbed up the stairs, as he clutched the cane with his left hand with unnecessary forcefulness.

_I wonder indeed._


	5. Detective Addam Marbrand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime finds an old friend.

_**Chapter Four: Detective Addam Marbrand** _

The next morning found Jaime gathering his wits and walking down to the police station three miles away in Harrentown. He felt he needed to tell them about the letter he had received upon arrival — wondered if it would make a difference. There would be a public inquiry about Elia Martell’s death and he could wait until after then, to see what they knew, but there was some set of adolescent honor living in his heart that drove his actions that morning. His adult cynicism left him during his walk, exhaustion and heartiness found home in his soul instead.

He was tired when he arrived but full of vigor as well. Something like adrenalin was pounding in his veins — the walk there made him feel alive again. As if he was flying in his aeroplane.

Jaime only hoped there wouldn’t be a crash this time.

The station was full of officers in black and gold milling about, speaking loudly, and there were already a few reporters on the scene looking eagerly around as if they could spot something of interest on the walls. Jaime's cynicism came rushing back. The reporters could smell the blood and wealth, they knew that there was a story here to sniff out.

Jaime walked up to speak to an officer but found himself stopped by a familiar figure. Jaime was surprised to realize he knew the lead detective on the case — an Addam Marbrand from boarding school. “What are you doing here?” he asked as soon as he saw his old classmate, who quickly led Jaime to his office. “I thought they stationed you in Casterly Rock.”

Detective Marbrand shrugged with a smile, although it was mostly hidden behind his bushy, red beard. “I needed a change of scenery. Been here the last four years. It’s usually a quiet gig, a few murders and rapes over in the Saltpans due to the Clegane gang, the city sometimes needs our assistance there, but it’s almost always just the basic burglary in the villages. Although now we have cruel anonymous letters and what looks to be a suicide.”

“What looks to be?”

Detective Marbrand shrugged. “No one went upstairs to see her. It looks like she emptied her capsules of medication into her tea. Too much of those nasty pills and death becomes your friend. It would have no taste, just a strange texture if not stirred well, and would have been mostly painless.”

Jaime didn’t like the _mostly_ but said nothing other than: “Who is this Elia Martell?”

“A Dornish beauty,” Addam said, scratching his beard. “A rich heiress. An expectant mother.” Before Jaime could unravel that bit of information, Addam spoke again. “Now, here, you can’t tell this information to anyone — even your sister. I know she’s here, heard about you both when I interviewed the Targaryens (it’s why I wasn’t surprised when I saw you). I know she could probably get you to tell her anything, but you mustn’t, Jaime.” 

The sincerity in his words startled Jaime.“Why are you telling me this then if you don’t want me to tell anyone?”

Addam shrugged as he lit his cigarette. “Sometimes an outside perspective helps.” He shook the smoke away and eyed Jaime. “Why are you here though? You didn’t know I was the lead on this case so what—” Addam paused for a moment and then smiled, “— led you to our little Harrentown station?”

“I received a letter like the one the dead girl got,” Jaime said. “Was all nonsense but I wanted the police to know about it in case. . .”

Addam didn't let him finish. “Do you still have it?” 

Jaime shook his head. “No, Cersei threw it into the fire, she was irate about it.”

“May I ask what it said?”

“Accused us of being lovers instead of siblings,” Jaime laughed although it came out hard and cold. Almost as if Cersei’s laugh had come out instead. “The typesetting was odd, nothing from any typewriter I’ve seen but I have never really noticed typesetting before.”

“This one is odd too,” Addam said. “You would think the letter writer would use a well-known brand of a typewriter instead of this… well, we’re not sure of the type yet. Have an expert coming from King’s Landing, should be here tomorrow to discuss. Rhaegar Targaryen holds the letter writer accountable for his wife’s death so we’ve been highly encouraged to pursue this line of inquiry. Hoping for a charge of manslaughter or some such, I suppose. It’ll all be discussed at the inquest if you go.”

Jaime felt like he had little interest in going now that Addam told him all the basic facts. “And you? Do you hold the letter writer responsible?”

Addam shrugged. “Suicide is not something someone just does. It’s built up inside for a while — she was a fragile woman and this letter might’ve shocked her into doing something she’s thought about before with no one to stop her.”

“Even when she was about to meet her husband for the first time in years?”

“It was not the first time in years,” Addam corrected. “She was pregnant, remember? Rhaegar confirmed he saw her a few months ago. It was then they decided to try to live as husband and wife at last after a night of passion. I suppose.” Addam didn’t sound convinced.

“What did her letter say?” Jaime asked, suddenly curious.

“Accused her of several things: adultery, kidnapping, and a plot to murder. One of those accusations must have hit the mark. Sounds much more varied than your little letter, don’t you think? By the way, if you receive any more of those let me know. I suspect the letter writer will either completely back away from all of this now — afraid — or… well, perhaps they just got their first taste of death and want to see how much more havoc they can cause.”

“Murder and kidnapping?”

“Lyanna Stark — which is odd since I am not sure the women ever even met one another — and, well, Lyanna Stark is alive and living in Dorne. Confirmed it with Ned Stark myself although I might ask an officer in her village in Dorne to investigate to make certain that she is — you never truly know, do you? It must be the adultery that truly hit the mark although who can blame the woman in such a marriage — they barely saw each other these past years and I’m sure Rhaegar didn’t have an empty bed the whole time.”

Jaime thought of Cersei and shook his head. “I’m quite sure you’re right.”

“Rhaegar didn’t even seem upset by the accusations in the letter — to be fair, it seems to be hard to ruffle the man. Even his wife’s death seemed to only catch him by surprise — there was very little grief on his face. Only when hearing she was pregnant did he stir and beg us his pardon, leaving the room quickly.”

“He didn’t know?”

“I suspect she was keeping it as a surprise for her husband,” Addam said. “Sad, really.”

“And it has to have been suicide?”

“I don’t see what else it could be. Pretty cut and dry. There was no poisoning of the cup itself — it was the medication she arrived with — she, like you, my friend, has struggled with back issues (based on the autopsy) — there’s nothing like it in the tea bag or any trace of it in the cup. She must have swallowed and ingested the medication as she normally would have except at a much higher dosage. We’re doing a toxicology report on the poison, could be a mixture of things if we’re wrong about the pills.”

“No one could have gone to her room and done it for her before she got the letter?”

“Like the maid? Interviewed her a while ago, the girl is just a girl. Named Pia, very simple, very pretty, could barely talk. She was horrified by what she saw and if she did it I’ll eat my badge.”

“Did anyone else go to her room?”

Addam laughed. “Are you quite sure you don’t want to be a detective, Jaime? Seems like you’re asking all the right questions.” He sobered up quickly, however, his brow furrowed in thought. “No evidence of the kind just yet, there were a few other guests but they were all out at the time she took her tea.”

“So the poor woman killed herself over a letter that wasn’t possibly even true.”

“It seems that way.”

Jaime usually could elicit a laugh with a quip in most tragic situations but for some reason, thinking of this young lady, he could not. He could have before his accident, he was sure, but now. . . “Awful.”

Addam watched him, looking surprised at Jaime’s sincerity. “It is indeed.”

Their conversation ended there and soon his detective friend was being called over for more important things than Jaime’s questions. 

It was time to leave.

Jaime was dreading the three-mile walk back to his home, his spine tingled from pain and he was tired of leaning on his cane for assistance. A form of help came to him then, wrapped up in a shawl of silver, her violet eyes glittering with something Jaime could not name. “Mr. Lannister?” Daenerys Targaryen asked when he made his way outside. She was standing on the edge of the station’s porch, surveying him with cool disdain. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I could say the same to you,” Jaime smiled with all his teeth.

“I just gave one of the officers my testimony,” she replied, frowning. The sunlight made her more beautiful, Jaime thought. It was a terrible sort of beauty — much like Cersei’s when she grew angry. But Daenerys was not angry. “Do you need a lift home?”

“That would be excellent.”

“Good,” she said, nodding sharply. The Targaryen girl was Brienne’s age, but she acted closer to his own. While Brienne did not seem sure if she was a girl or a woman, Miss Targaryen knew very well that she was an adult woman and held herself as such. . .

Not that she treated Jaime to any fluttering eyelashes — it was more in the way she handled the car, opening the door before Jaime could dutifully (and dully) open it for her with his left hand. “Get in,” she ordered and he obeyed. She distracted him with silly observations about the station ( _“That man who runs the whole station division, Tarly was his name? He seems a terrible bore doesn’t he?”_ ) until at last, she came to the real reason why she offered him a ride. “You never answered my question. You must realize this?”

Jaime, who had been watching the scenery whirl by with something like contentment, looked back at her. She wore sunglasses now so he couldn’t sense what she was thinking. “I didn’t mean to avoid it.”

“Then answer it now.”

 _In another life, she must have been a Queen._ “I got one of those sorts of letters. Well, Cersei and I both did — it was addressed to both of us, or rather, involved both of us.” He was rambling. “I thought it might be helpful to tell the police about it.”

“You were in there a long time.”

“How do you know that?”

“You didn’t see me when I came in,” Daenerys smiled. It wasn’t a kind one. “I need to know if you’re my enemy, Mr. Lannister.”

The question startled him. _And annoyed him_. “Excuse me?”

“My brother is suffering through a shock and I am as well. I hadn’t even known he was married — I knew of women he had loved and lost but never knew of Elia Martell. Did you know of her? Did you know of the marriage? Is there something I need to know?”

This line of inquiry puzzled Jaime. “Why would you need to know anything? And why would I know anything?”

“I don’t know why you would know anything and… as to your first question.” She paused. “He is my brother. I will protect him for as long as I can even from himself. That is what family does.”

Jaime suddenly remembered dark, dim rumors from long ago of another brother she and Rhaegar shared. There had been rumors about _that_ Targaryen since he was a boy. Almost as many rumors as there were about their father, Aerys. “What about Viserys?”

Her beautiful face didn’t flinch. “What of him?”

“Is he not in the insane asylum? Did you protect him? Your other brother?”

“I put him there to protect him.”

“You put him there?” Jaime was startled. “Wouldn’t you have been a child? Wasn’t he only a child? Why was he a danger?”

She ignored his questions. “We’re here,” she said curtly, parking the car with such suddenness that they both almost flew forward in the seat. Jaime wondered for a moment if she would kick a cripple out of her car. 

He decided not to take that chance and left his unanswered questions alone. “Goodbye, Miss Targaryen, I wish you well. Don’t open any letters.”

She took off her sunglasses and Jaime once again could see her violet eyes. She looked almost amused. “I’m not the sort to poison myself. And if I were to commit suicide, it would be much more dramatic.”

“Poison isn’t dramatic?” he wondered aloud to himself as she sped off in her fancy car. 

She didn’t park right in front of his house, for what reason Jaime couldn’t fathom until he walked a little further. 

Brienne Tarth was sitting on his stoop, looking so distressed that for a strange, bewildering moment Jaime wanted to comfort her and run his leftover hand through her hair, almost as if she were his pet dog. He shook that off and grinned.

“Wench,” he said, trying to maintain some sense of normalcy on such a strange day. “What are you doing here?” 

She didn’t even scowl at him. “I can’t believe there’s been a murder,” she said instead, her voice sad, her eyes watering.

“It’s going to be ruled a suicide,” Jaime said, watching her blue eyes. He could read the world in them. “What makes you think it’s a murder?”

“Why would she come all the way here to kill herself?” she demanded. “And haven’t you read any books? It’s never just a suicide.”

“Detective novels!” Jaime laughed. “You would be the sort, you silly wench.”

Brienne _did_ scowl then. “You don’t think it’s a suicide either or else you wouldn’t have gone to the station.” _How fast did rumors travel in this village?_

_Faster than an aeroplane falling._

“How did you know I was there?” he demanded.

“You forget I know your housekeeper,” Brienne said. “She may not like me but I think she dislikes you even more.”

“Ha! I knew that old hag hated me. I was telling Cersei this just the other day. . .”

She interrupted. “Miss Roelle thinks you have a filthy sense of humor,” Brienne looked disapproving. “What sort of jokes do you make?”

“Filthy ones apparently.”

Brienne opened her mouth and then shook her head. “It doesn’t matter — I know you think it’s not as clear cut as they make it.”

“All I know is that Cersei and I received one of those silly letters too and it wasn’t true and we threw it in the fire where it belonged. We didn’t poison or hang ourselves or something else ridiculous. I doubt whatever was in that letter was true for Elia and yet she killed herself.”

Brienne shook her head. “Some letters are true.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because mine was.”

* * *

Jaime, too exhausted to do the respectable thing and walk Brienne home, called a cab. They had spoken together for about four hours. Brienne, reticent as always, slowly explained the letter she had received from the anonymous letter writer. “It said that I murdered my brother and while I didn’t murder him it was certainly my fault he died. I may as well be a murderer.”

“That’s a very black and white way of looking at things,” Jaime observed.

Brienne’s eyes were soft and her gaze was beyond Jaime, to something else entirely. “We were swimming, and he died saving me from a riptide.”

“He was a hero then.”

“I know that.”

“He died protecting you — that doesn’t make you a murderer.”

“It’s my fault we were even swimming. He said it was too rough, but I laughed and went out in the waves. He was right.” Her voice was not bitter — only sad. She really was just a girl — _an ugly, awkward girl._ Jaime sighed then and told her she was being stupid and it was only then she bristled. “I am not stupid, Jaime,” Brienne said. “Even if everyone assumes I am.”

He smiled. “You never call me Jaime.”

She flushed. “Well, it’s your name isn’t it?”

“You tend to call me Mr. Lannister.” _When you say my name at all._

She snorted. “You don’t deserve the formality, I know that quite well by now.”

“Very unladylike,” he reprimanded, delighted to distract her. “And I guess you’re right. About all things really.”

“Even that it’s a murder?”

He matched her snort. “I wouldn’t go that far, Brienne. You didn’t murder your brother. It was an accident.”

“I don’t mean Galladon. I mean Elia Martell. Someone murdered her, Jaime.”

“Who would even want to murder her?” he pointed out.

Brienne bit her lip and turned away. “I’m sure someone would want to murder the wife of the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

 _She wasn’t wrong,_ Jaime knew. “But did anyone else even realize she was his wife? It was a secret — even his own sister didn’t know the truth.”

Brienne deflated. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Too many detective novels,” Jaime said, “that’s what your diagnosis is. Go home and rest, my dear wench.”

She glared. “My name is Brienne.”

“Brienne then,” Jaime agreed, hiding his smile under his hand. “Your father will wonder where you’ve been and then you’ll have to explain that you were in a man’s house unchaperoned.”

“Miss Roelle is here,” Brienne said, not rising to his bait. “And no one would believe _you’d_ want anything with _me_.”

He stared at her. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re too honest?”

“Yes.”

Jaime laughed. “I’ll call you a cab… _Brienne_.”

She did not protest and they waited outside together in warm silence. Jaime fingered the cigarette in his pocket, debating about lighting it. He desperately needed a smoke but Brienne seemed to be the prim type so he let it be. He did not want to ruin this little moment between them with a momentary delight of a cigarette. 

She was such a strange girl. He wanted to marvel at her — he had never met one girl like her in his entire life. Athletic, strong, ugly as sin, taller than a mountain, quick to call him out, honest, and so focused on doing the right thing. Honorable. Noble. Words that Jaime hadn’t heard or used since the literature classes he struggled through in school. 

What an odd, bewildering creature. 

The cab came and went with minimal goodbyes, Brienne only looked back at him once. He expected her to look sorrowful or stern but… her eyes said something he could not name. Fear, perhaps? He wondered about that but dismissed it entirely. Brienne was not a fearful girl. She was brave — braver than most.

Cersei arrived not ten minutes after Brienne left, Rhaegar’s chauffeur opening the door for her to allow her an escape from the vehicle. She did not thank the man but instead glared at Jaime, who finally lit the cigarette he had been wanting to smoke for the past hour, although it took him the entire ten minutes to get it lit since he only possessed one hand. “Really, Jaime? In front of the neighbors?”

He surmised she was more annoyed that he performed his bad habit in front of Rhaegar Targaryen’s chauffeur. _Neighbors be damned after all._ “Didn’t realize you were still so chummy with Rhaegar.”

The chauffeur had driven off by this point although the fire in Cersei’s eyes did not seem to lessen despite the disappearance. “Jaime, you understand nothing at all, do you? You are so ignorant of the realities of the world.”

“If you say so, sister.”

She glared at him and then marched into the house, slamming the door. 

Jaime waited a moment and looked up at the sky. The stars were shining brightly and he wondered, for the first time, what happened when death won.

He did not even wonder this when he fell out of the sky — he did not wonder this when contemplating suicide. He only wondered about this now and he was not sure why. Inhaling the smoke, he closed his eyes and tried to think.

Why did he believe, like Brienne, that it wasn’t a suicide? He didn’t know the woman. _And yet…_

He felt as if he failed her somehow. A woman he never met and never expected to meet. He didn’t even know what she looked like — although there would be photos at the inquest. 

He just knew he had to figure this out.

If it was the last thing he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I'm the worst. The weeks flew by me and I barely noticed time happening which is why I'm behind on the updates. STG I cannot believe August is almost over. 
> 
> Also got a new job (woo!!!) which didn't help the incomprehensibility of time and existence. Everything is in flux in Covid times. Due to this, I'm not going to promise a timeline for the next one because apparently I'm incapable of keeping to it. The story is still mostly 99.7% finished but there are definitely necessary tweaks for the last 3-4 chapters.
> 
> But I hope this was even somewhat worth the wait!


	6. The Inquest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime listens to rumors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: coarse language revolving around mental health, suicide, and physical ability.

_**Chapter Five - The Inquest** _   
  


The inquest was held three days later.

_The time of death was put between 6 pm and 9 pm based on when the body was discovered and when she was last seen._

_The letter came by the evening post and was read out loud at the inquest._ It was as terrible as Jaime imagined and for a moment he put himself in a young woman’s shoes, a woman who thought she was meeting her estranged husband for the first time in years. And wondered if he would do what she did. He almost did before after all. . .

_Dr. Luwin, the village doctor, gave medical evidence stressing unduly that it must be suicide by poison. Directed by him, the jury brought in the inevitable verdict: Suicide while temporarily insane._

“Terrible, terrible stuff,” Robert Baratheon said to Jaime after the inquest’s verdict. They milled together on accident — Jaime typically avoided Robert like the plague, disliking the older man instinctually. He remembered what Cersei said about Robert’s fiance and wondered what Robert thought of the letter — the one accusing Elia of Lyanna’s murder. “So strange how this went down. Did you know I was at the bar at that inn only hours before she died? Didn’t even see her arrive.” The man paused for breath. “And I’m sure none of that was true... Lyanna is… _well_ ,” he pulled at his collar, “well, she’s not dead.” He sounded less than happy about her continued existence, Jaime noticed. “So this Dornish woman couldn’t have murdered her. I suppose the other things in the letter affected her state of mind. Perhaps it was just awful enough to persuade her in her frail state to do herself in. No smoke without fire -- you’ve heard about the other letters, right, Lannister? Most of those have had a kernel of truth.”

“Other letters?” Jaime asked, surprised. “What letters would those be?”

Robert shrugged. “I haven’t had one myself yet but I know my maid got one and refused to come to work for a week -- apparently I’d seduced her from her fiance and she had to go to the city for a _doctor,_ according to the writer.” Robert’s smile was sly and Jaime's dislike increased. “No smoke without fire, you know…” he added with a wink.

“I hear her brother, Oberyn Martell, is coming,” said Lysa Tully, ignoring Robert. “To fetch her body for the funeral. . . I hear he has a terrible sort of temper.”

“Perhaps that’s what truly did her in then, fear of her brother,” Robert said with an odd, boisterous laugh. Jaime, again, felt an incredible dislike for the man but said nothing. “Oh, come now, _boy_ ,” Robert said to Jaime, “you have to laugh in the face of death.”

“I have before,” Jaime said dryly, waving his right arm around. Lysa shuddered at his stump. “I even understand what it is like to want to die —” he did not mean to admit that to a man like Robert Baratheon but this situation brought out too many memories. Fortunately, Robert was ogling some red-haired woman rather than listening to Jaime.

He continued, “— but this death is hard to laugh at. It still makes little sense.”

Lysa Tully interjected herself. “The letter, other than the stuff about Lyanna Stark, was true! That’s why she did it! It all makes complete sense. Men always want to pretend everything is upright and honorable,” Lysa sniffed. She was enjoying this immensely, Jaime suspected. “But I’m sure she did _it_ — I’m sure she had affairs and whatever else. She’s _Dornish_.”

“And her husband is no clean whistle. You should know, right, Lannister?” Robert elbowed Jaime in a supposedly friendly fashion. Jaime had a feeling if he did not escape Robert’s company soon that he would soon be trapped in a one-armed hug from the burly man. Or a fist-fight. “The way he goes after your sister… why it’s outrageous that he’s been married this entire time.”

“So truly no one knew then,” Lysa sniffed. “So strange.” 

“Well someone knew,” Jaime pointed out. “The letter writer knew.”

“Strange still,” Lysa glowered. “And the letter writer seems to know more than she ought to.”

“She?” Jaime asked.

“Only women write trash like this and know such secrets,” Lysa informed Jaime with a haughty sneer. “Of course it’s a woman.”

After she walked away from them, whistling a little, Robert leaned over Jaime, “Strange she says? She’s a strange bird herself, mind you. Lusts after Littlefinger of all people.”

“Littlefinger?”

Robert barked a laugh. “It’s what Lysa and Cat’s little brother, Edmure, you’ll meet him soon enough I gather -- he visits on Sundays, calls Petyr Baelish since he comes from the littlest finger in the Vale. Suits him, doesn’t it?” Jaime had to agree it did and Robert laughed again. He sobered up when Ned Stark walked by with his wife. “Ned, Cat! What did you think of that mess?”

Jaime always felt Ned Stark disapproved of him. This feeling grew as Ned Stark looked over him with a heavy gaze before smiling a little at Robert. “I’m just glad none of it was true.”

“Then you are quite sure that Lyanna…” Robert said, flushing. 

“Is fine,” Ned finished. “As you already know. And you know that’s all I can say, Robert. I promised her --”

“Promises!” Robert threw his hands up. Jaime had thought he had heard the man at his loudest but evidently, this was not the case. “Ned! This is ridiculous, she’s my fiance--”

“ _Was_ your fiance, Robert,” Ned said with such firmness that Jaime had to glance over. The older man’s long face was pale. “It’s long over. Leave it be.”

“Ned,” Catelyn Stark pulled at her husband’s arm. “Let’s go.”

He obeyed his wife while Robert cursed under his breath and kicked the dirt on the street. Jaime trailed behind the Starks, not eager to stick around Robert Baratheon at his best, let alone at his worst.

Daenerys Targaryen found Jaime sitting on the ground next to an ancient weirwood stump in the park. “There you are,” she said. “What on earth are you doing here of all places?”

Jaime shrugged. “Avoiding this town and its gossip. Do you know I’ve heard the phrase ‘there’s no smoke without fire’ fifty times today? They didn’t even know the woman! How could they know if it’s true?”

Daenerys shook her head, her lips pressed together. “There’s been enough… well, you’ve heard the stories about the letters I’m sure. It’s a shame, all right. A rotten shame.”

“Had you met her before?”

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “But I never knew about their secret. And it was only once — at a ball for some charity. She was beautiful. And kind. She reminded me of someone… I could never figure out who.”

Jaime didn’t care for her remembrances. “Whoever wrote that letter should be ashamed of themselves.”

“I suppose,” Daenerys said. “But perhaps she would have done it anyhow. We don’t know if she even read the letter.”

“They found it opened.”

“Perhaps the maid opened it after she found my sister-in-law’s body,” Daenerys said, “too curious to ignore what it said. Did anyone check it for prints?”

“There weren’t any prints on it according to the police,” Jaime said, thinking back to the inquest. “I suppose Elia wore gloves.”

Daenerys frowned. “Dornish women don’t typically wear gloves.”

“But everyone else does here — perhaps she wanted to fit in.”

Daenerys shook her head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s over now.”

Jaime thought of Brienne’s theory and sighed. “Hopefully so.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Lannister,” Daenerys chimed while walking away. “I think this will turn back into a quiet village with quiet village gossip soon enough.”

_She could not have been more wrong._

* * *

For a long while, however, Jaime believed Daenerys Targaryen was right. For the first week after the inquest, all seemed calm in the little village. No signs of outrageous letters, no signs of suicide, no signs of a murder. The only disruption in his life was when Cersei pouted over Rhaegar Targaryen leaving for the capital to deal with the financial consequences of his wife’s death — and, in Jaime’s opinion, to avoid the ire of Elia’s brother Oberyn Martell. 

Mr. Martell was the only other disturbance and at first, he was a quiet one, slinking into the town before the inquest, looking more like an interested journalist than the brother of the deceased. He charmed the ladies (and the men) quickly although a few gentlemen were not fond of the Dornishman. During one of these spirited discussions with the Dornishman, it became clear that Mr. Martell was not a journalist but, in fact, Mr. Martell. 

The man seemed more than amused that it took so long for the villagers to figure this out. “I never told those men and women that I was a journalist,” he told Jaime once the news had broken out. “Everyone assumed it and I just… did not correct them.” 

“What is it that you do then?” Jaime asked.

Something in the Dornishman’s eyes flickered. “I’m a chemist specializing in poisons.”

Jaime was taken aback. Perhaps it was murder then — a brother murdering a sister? 

_Brienne would hate that._

“I can see where your mind goes and I did prescribe the medication to Elia for her pain,” Oberyn said, his mouth stern. “But I’ve studied the results of your inquest and I believe your doctor got a few things wrong.”

“He’s not my doctor.”

An amused look grew on Mr. Martell’s face. “Ah yes, you are new here as well. I had forgotten. Well, then the village doctor has confused the sort of medication I gave my sister for her nerves for another similar medication. And that is why I will not be leaving until I have gotten to the bottom of this.”

“You think it was murder then? Not suicide?”

The laugh that came from Mr. Martell was high and cold. It distinctly reminded Jaime of Cersei’s laughter when she found out Rhaegar was married. He shivered. “Of course it was murder, Mr. Lannister. My sister would never commit suicide,” Mr. Martell said.

“Many have said such a thing.”

“And in this case it’s true. She and I were best of friends and hid absolutely nothing from one another. I even knew of her marriage to Rhaegar although I had attempted to persuade her to end the marriage for years. She wouldn’t although for what reason I could never understand. He’s not a good man although he pretends to be. And he’s superb at pretending to be.”

“You suspect Rhaegar?”

Oberyn’s smile twisted. “Is it not always the husband?”

“But he was with all of us the night it happened — he was hosting a party and awaiting Elia’s arrival.” 

Oberyn Martell only snorted at Jaime’s answer, “And poison would require him to be there?”

Jaime could not argue for another man arrived on the scene — Mr. Connington, along with his young nephew. 

And, behind them, appeared a miserable Brienne. 

She was on the arm of Connington’s nephew, although neither of them looked pleased about this arrangement. The young man’s arm was barely touching hers and his scowl was deep. Brienne had no scowl, just resignation written on her piteous face. “Excuse me,” Jaime said to Mr. Martell. “I see Mr. Connington, Rhaegar’s steward has just arrived.”

Mr. Martell’s dark eyes widened and glanced where Jaime was pointing. He smiled with all of his teeth showing. “I see my new target then, come and introduce us, Mr. Lannister.”

While Jaime did not want to be an accomplice to Mr. Martell’s mission, he wanted to help Brienne escape and so he went over with Mr. Martell at his side, and quickly made the introductions, almost enjoying how pale Mr. Connington grew when he heard the name, Martell. 

He did not enjoy how Oberyn Martell’s gaze lingered over Brienne with interest. She was just a _girl_ and Martell was a grown man who had about a hundred dates a week if the rumors proved true. Brienne had never kissed a boy (Jaime assumed anyhow) — let alone a grown man. 

And if she had been kissed, it definitely wasn’t by the younger Connington, who shook her off as soon as his uncle stopped looking over at the younger set, too distracted by Mr. Martell to pay attention to his nephew. Brienne looked nearly as relieved as the idiotic boy and when Jaime caught her eye, he noticed how exhausted she was. “What have you been doing all day?” he asked her in an aside, choosing to ignore the others.

“I’ve been walking with Ron. Father and Mr. Connington would like it if he and I got along better,” she said, her voice glum. “But we don’t.”

“I can see that.” He meant to say more but Mr. Connington interrupted them.

“Lannister, how did you find yourself in the company of, uhm, Mr. Martell here?”

“Ran into each other in town and we both recognized each other as. . . _outsiders_ of the village,” Jaime replied. Martell’s smile grew as Mr. Connington’s shrunk. 

“Is that so?” Connington said, more to himself than to Jaime. “You have never met before?”

“Never have even seen each other before.”

“I told Connington here that I’m going to have my own doctor examine Elia before I take her back home to be buried. It’s only right. He’s coming to town on the train tomorrow.”

“Do you distrust our doctors?” Ron Connington sneered. He didn’t think much of the Dornish, Jaime suspected. “Your sister killed herself. That’s the end of it.”

“I don’t believe it,” Brienne surprised everyone by speaking. “It doesn’t make sense. Nothing about this case makes sense.”

Mr. Connington’s mouth was agape while Ron’s sneer only grew. Jaime itched to punch him but thought it wouldn’t work out well in the company of the boy’s uncle. But still — it was _tempting._

“Thank you, Miss--” Oberyn said and Brienne supplied:

“Tarth.”

“Thank you Miss Tarth,” Martell’s eyes sparkled although Jaime saw an underpinning of grief in them. “I am glad more than just myself sees the oddities in this case.”

“The police think she did herself in too,” Ron retorted, glaring at Brienne.

Jaime whirled on the boy, tired of him. “You are speaking to a man who just lost his sister. Perhaps you should stop speaking if you can’t stop yourself from sounding like an ass.” Ron’s glare left Brienne and targeted Jaime but it was so slight and weak that Jaime could not help but laugh at the young man. “Mr. Connington, it might be best if you lead your nephew home.”

“Are you threatening us, _cripple_?” Ron said but his uncle pulled him aside, looking tired of his nephew and alarmed at Jaime’s words.

“Let’s go,” he told his nephew and, after a moment’s deliberation, they both left.

“Well,” said Mr. Martell once the Conningtons left the scene. “He’s a piece of work. But I distrust his uncle even more.”

“Mr. Connington is all right,” Brienne said loyally. “He’s much kinder than his nephew.”

“But he has the same affliction as my sister,” said Mr. Martell. “I noticed it immediately. The tremors, the anxious way he speaks — he takes the same medication or something close to it.”

“And what does that mean?”

Mr. Martell’s smile was enigmatic. “I suppose I’ll find out.”

* * *

Brienne joined Jaime for dinner that night at the pub, not long after Oberyn went back to the inn. A puzzled look crossed her expression every time she took a bite of food. He tried to ignore it, tired of speaking of Elia Martell’s death, and instead attempted to make the younger girl laugh but she ignored him, pushing aside her food with her fork.

“What have you heard of Aerys Targaryen, their father?” Jaime asked, bored with the silence. “Or Viserys, their brother?” 

Brienne’s head shot up and her blue eyes arrested him. “Viserys hasn’t been seen here in years,” she said, her voice wary. 

“You met him?”

She nodded, her wide lips crossing in a grimace. “He wasn’t very pleasant.”

“He must have been not much older than yourself,” Jaime said.

“Only a few years,” she agreed. “He hasn’t been seen since... he was put away.”

“Why did they put him away?”

Brienne bit her lip. “Why do you want to know?”

“If my sister plans on marrying into a family that has the first wife die suspiciously, the younger brother put away in an asylum, and not a word about the rich, rumored-to-be-insane father, well, then I want to know what’s going on.”

“He couldn’t have hurt Elia,” Brienne said, her expression relaxing. “He can’t contact anyone — Dragonstone is safe.”

For him? _Or for the rest of us?_ “But what did he do to be put there?”

“I don’t know,” Brienne said, looking away from Jaime. “No one has ever said — at least not to me.”

 _They treat her like a child here,_ Jaime thought. _She’s a grown woman. Beyond grown._ “Have you ever asked?”

“Of course,” Brienne said. “When it first happened at least.... then Father sent me to the boarding school right around the same time. I didn’t think about it after. Well, not until I came back and realized he was still gone.”

“You thought he’d be home by now?”

“I always assumed his stay was for temporary treatment not lifelong...”

Jaime was quiet for a moment, pushing aside his own food. “Daenerys told me that she... she was the one who put her brother away. For his own safety.”

Brienne’s blue eyes were wide. He almost laughed, she was so eager and innocent. “She’s younger than me!” Brienne protested. “How would she —”

Jaime shrugged. “I asked and didn't exactly receive an answer worth telling. Odd, though, isn’t it? The whole family is a tad mad, I think. Although perhaps all families are…” Jaime added, thinking of his own family.

“Rhaegar did always seem kind to me,” Brienne said, “but...” Her expression was troubled.

“I doubt he did it,” Jaime said, hoping he believed his own words. He smiled at Brienne, tired of her frowns. He looked around and noticed couples starting to dance, while the musician (Anguy was his name if Jaime remembered correctly) played on his saxophone. “Come now, my lady, there is music playing, don’t you want to dance?”

His hopes for a smile were quickly dashed as a frown descended upon her face. “You’re mocking me.”

“Never,” he promised, holding out his good hand. His only hand.

Brienne didn’t take it. “I can’t dance,” she protested, her frown disappearing. Panic replaced her hurt.

“Neither can I,” he said, waving his stump, hoping this would goad her. It did nothing. “Fine,” he said, exhausted. “Eat your food and go home.”

She did as he bid and then ran out the door so quickly and gracefully that Jaime had to laugh. Her large frame shouldn’t have let her be so agile and elegant and yet... there she went.

He paid for the meal with a smile, somewhat hoping that next time she’d say yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hannukah and an early Merry Christmas to all of you! I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy! My busy time at my new job has finally eased up so I should be posting regularly once again. 
> 
> All the lovely comments people have written while I've been AWOL have been so nice to read and have got me through some rough moments the past few months so thank you for your kindness <3
> 
> Please keep staying safe and healthy (including mental health here, folks!!!).


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